To barter, nor compensating the want 250 By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, Nor asking overmuch and taking less, And still foreboding "what would Enoch say?” For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 255 Than what she gave in buying what she sold : She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, Expectant of that news which never came, Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy. 260 Now the third child was sickly-born and grew Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it With all a mother's care: nevertheless, Whether her business often call'd her from it, Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 265 Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed- howsoe'er it was, 270 After a lingering, ere she was aware, In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. "Surely," said Philip, "I may see her now, 275 May be some little comfort;" therefore went, Past thro' the solitary room in front, Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, 230 Fresh from the burial of her little one, 985 290 Cared not to look on any human face, He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply, "Favor from one so sad and so forlorn As I am!" half abash'd him; yet unask'd, "I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, Enoch, your husband: I have ever said You chose the best among us a strong man: For where he fixt his heart he set his hand To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. 295 And wherefore did he go this weary way, And leave you lonely? not to see the world For pleasure?-nay, but for the wherewithal To give his babes a better bringing-up Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. 300 And if he come again, vext will he be To find the precious morning hours were lost. If he could know his babes were running wild Then Annie with her brows against the wall Answer'd, "I cannot look you in the face 15 I seem so foolish and so broken down. ; When you came in my sorrow broke me down; And now I think your kindness breaks me down; But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me ; He will repay you: money can be repaid; 820 Not kindness such as yours.” "Then you will let me, Annie?" And Philip ask'd There she turn'd, She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, Then calling down a blessing on his head 325 Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, And past into the little garth beyond. So lifted up in spirit he moved away. Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, And bought them needful books, and every way, $30 Like one who does his duty by his own, Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake, He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, Or conies from the down, and now and then, But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind: Lords of his house and of his mill were they; Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 25 Down at the far end of an avenue, Going we know not where and so ten years, It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 360 To go with others nutting to the wood, And Annie would go with them; then they begg'd For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too: Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him, 865 "Come with us, Father Philip," he denied ; But when the children pluck'd at him to go, He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, For was not Annie with them? and they went. But after scaling half the weary down, 370 Just where the prone edge of the wood began 370. The repetition here of the phrase in line 67 is one of the instances of the device used in the poem to bind together the To feather toward the hollow, all her force While all the younger ones with jubilant cries But Philip sitting at her side forgot Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour Here in this wood, when like a wounded life He crept into the shadow: at last he said, 385 Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie, How merry they are down yonder in the wood. Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word. "Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands, At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 390"The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was lost! No more of that! why should you kill yourself And make them orphans quite?" And Annie said "I thought not of it: but I know not whyTheir voices make me feel so solitary." 395 Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 400 It is beyond all hope, against all chance, - two parts of the tragedy and make it all one. Compare lines 80 and 507, for a similar practice; still others will be found. |